


From the cold grasp of death

by Kami_del_Antro



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Death, Doern Velázquez/Morrissey, Guild Wars 2 Living World, Guild Wars 2 Living World Season 5, Living World Episode: s05e01 Whisper in the Dark, Near Death, Original Character Death(s), Other, Sylvari (Guild Wars), when I say graphic violence I mean it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24134116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: Something's wrong in the Far Shiverpeaks. Fallen soldiers, lost agents, and an evil whisper in the wind. Agent Morrissey from the Order of Whispers sets out to find his missing comrades... but in the middle of the merciless storm of the Dragon, he will find more than he bargained for.
Kudos: 6





	From the cold grasp of death

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten used to indulge in new stories whenever I'm going slow on my existing ones. This is my newest indulgence. CW for violence, death, injuries, and the kind of stuff you would expect from Jormag's mindfuckery.

Two days ago, Doern had sounded the alarm in the middle of the night. An alarm that didn’t ring through the caves of the Chantry of Secrets since the days of the War of Zhaitan, or so Morrissey had heard his fellow agents mutter. The ominous ringing stopped as soon as all the agents with enough clearance reunited around Preceptors Halvorra, Valenze, and Doern, along with Riel Darkwater, who lurked half-hidden in the shadows.

“Agents,” Doern greeted, briefly crossing glances with Morrissey. Despite his smirk, the sylvari knew better than to expect any special consideration from his lover while he was in Preceptor mode. “A situation arised in Bjora’s Marches.”

Worried murmurs echoed his words, especially among the norn agents. Bjora’s Marches was a place of legend and song. A cursed place. Morrissey didn’t much care for norn folktales, but the information was worrisome all the same. Doern’s face was transparent in his worry, and both Halvorra and Valenze remained stiff and stern, but quietly exchanged glances from time to time.

“We lost contact with our agents in the field. With all of them,” he clarified. The murmurs stopped, replaced with the silence of death. “The reports are confusing and contradictory. An intercepted message suggests that the Commander and her Guild are on the case. All in all, we are currently under Code Black.”

Subtly, his body language changed. From stern and professional, he lowered his eyes for a second, breathing in deeply.

“We need a volunteer on the frontline to gather as much intel as possible, as fast as they can manage,” he announced. “As soon as they give us the green light, we will send more personnel to aid, but we can’t risk losing agents at this rate again. Those willing, step forward.”

Once more, only silence answered his words. Morrissey noticed that everyone, but the norns in particular, exchanged glances and shifted awkwardly. There was a terrible secret buried deep within the Bjora’s Marches, it seemed. Something awful casted a shadow on the mountains up north.

With a shrug and a sigh, Morrissey stepped forward, to the shock and surprise of his fellow agents. He threw them a side glance. He had a reputation for being slippery and avoiding conflict, but he was no coward. Besides, doing something crazy had its benefits.

“Agents, we need decoders working on intercepted messages, and agents ready for departure as soon as possible. Dismissed,” Doern announced to the crowd. Then, he locked eyes with Morrissey. Something in his expresion told the sylvari he was disturbed. “As for you, Agent Morrissey; debrief. In my office. Double time.”

Morrissey didn’t even try to conceal his smug smirk as he followed Doern to his office, but still had the decency to pretend not to have visited the place so many times, sometimes his feet carried him there on their own.

As the curtain dropped behind him, so did he dropped the facade to raise his eyebrows at his Preceptor, biting his lower lip.

“Worried, darling?” he asked. Doern sat on top of his desk, crossing his arms.

“I hope you understand the risk you’re taking, Agent,” he said, piercing the sylvari’s eyes with his serious gaze. “This is no laughing matter; we lost a lot of good men in the field in one night. The situation might be complicated.”

“I’ll be fine, dear.” With his usual sway of hips, Morrissey got closer, leaning over Doern with a cocky smile. “Luckily for you, I’m not a good man.”

Briefly they exchanged glances. Doern was stoic, cold, even, before standing up and turning around his desk to sit at the chair. A wrinkle of worry and a heavy sigh betrayed his facade of perfect control.

“Your chopper leaves in an hour,” he announced. “You should leave your affairs in order and prepare everything you might need on this quest. The _why_ is more important than the _how_ in this mission in particular; please keep that in mind during your investigation.”

“Wow, ominous,” Morrissey murmured, hands on his hips. “How about you say something cuter for once?”

Silence as they stared at each other once more. Until Doern briefly closed his eyes, hands clasped over his desk before addressing him once again.

“Take care, Mozz,” he said. “Don’t die.”

Behind Doern’s bookcase, almost forgotten by time, there was a diagram of a bloated, walking corpse. Morrissey had read the report about Tequatl’s first flight over the northern coast of Orr. Many agents killed and rose on the spot. One of the few survivors; a young and upcoming male field agent who lived to tell the story. One of the dead and risen; a young and upcoming female field agent he had to put down for good.

Doern still carried a simple ring hanging on a chain on his neck; a golden band with an inscription in runes that Morrissey couldn’t read - not Krytan in nature. Abstent-mindely the sylvari held onto his wrist, where the deep scar of a thorn whip strike slashed his skin. He knew how the past stung, sometimes.

So he smirked once more, and turned around Doern’s desk to sit on his lap, facing him. For once, he didn’t object, but frowned.

“Your hour is running, Agent,” he reminded Morrissey, who fixed one loose strand of ebony hair behind his ear.

“Then every second counts, darling,” he murmured, before kissing him.

They weren’t good at sharing words of love. But the sex was always mind blowing.

It had been two days, and Morrissey could still feel his human-like smell on his skin if he focused. As he glanced at his very human hands on his lap, however, he tried not to think about it. He was tired of the uncertainty, sitting on his ass and strapped to his seat for hours on end. He was tired of the repetitive sound of the chopper on his ears. He was tired of keeping illusions and glamours up for so long. He couldn’t wait to finally start working in the field again.

“Hey, Recruit,” he suddenly heard, raising his eyes towards a disgruntled charr Crusader, holding onto straps on the ceiling of the chopper to keep his balance. “What was your name again?”

Morrissey fixed a strand of loose, golden brown hair behind his ear, and smiled innocently.

“Anwir,” he announced. “Anwir Lightweaver.”

The charr softly growled, shaking his head.

“You look too young to be a soldier, human,” he grunted. “Hope you know where you’re heading towards.”

Morrissey blinked at him.

“Worry not, furry friend,” he assured the charr, words dripping honey. “Appearances can be deceiving. I’m more dangerous than I look.”

The charr scoffed.

“I hope that’s true.”

As soon as he turned, however, the charr shook his head and grunted, rubbing his temple and shrugging his broad shoulders. Morrissey cracked the joints of his fingers, smirking in silent victory. He had to make sure that charr would not even think of him again, after all.

The climate grew colder as the hours passed, and when the pilot announced they were traveling further north the Bitterfrost Frontier through uncharted territory, Morrissey curled his hands to fists on his lap. He had gone over the plan one thousand times. He was ready. But a cursed silence, only broken by the whistling of the wind, spoke of a land of damnation and death.

“We’re beginning our approach,” the charr Crusader suddenly announced, walking around the rows of soldiers as he held onto the straps. “Recruits! Training’s over. Once we land, rally on the open field in the middle of the keep and await instructions. Smoldur knows what we’ll find when we get there, so be ready for anything.”

Morrissey clenched his teeth so hard his temple hurt. He only had to follow the plan. Once the chopper touched land, he would vanish from sight and start working towards his own goals. It was funny to think Almorra Soulkeeper never considered her organization could be infiltrated so easily, but for now, it was convenient to his ends. All it took was some illusions, and a good, long look at some Vigil armor pieces.

The chopper tossed and jumped in the turbulent air, and Morrissey closed his eyes. He could hear a human recruit quietly saying a prayer, and a norn soldier pleading to the Spirits of the Wild for a safe landing. Their words ringed strangely hollow in the abnormal silence.

“On your feet, soldiers!” the charr ordered, unsheathing his sword as the chopper’s ramp lowered and the storm found its way inside. “Ready to head out!”

They obeyed without even glancing at each other, each holding onto a strap as they awaited commands. Morrissey briefly surveyed the scene. They were young, scared, _green_. For a moment, he was relieved he wasn’t one of them.

The chopper shook when it landed, and the charr Crusader pointed towards the blinding snow with his sword.

“Go, go, go!”

The soldiers ran outside, ignoring the freezing cold, suppressing shivers and gasps. Morrissey bit down on his lip, trying to ignore it as well. He wasn’t good with cold, after all. It hurt his joints and made keeping up the glamours pretty difficult.

Little time he had to complain in his head about the cold, however, for as soon as the group ran across the keep’s doors, they stopped. The charr crusader growled as he pushed his way ahead of the group.

“Who told yall to stop, cubs?” he roared, reaching the front row. “If you don’t follow orders, you’ll be Dragon meat in no ti-...”

He stopped, and contemplated, wide-eyed, the scene in front of him. Morrissey’s illusion weakened at the sight, but he managed to keep it up drawing strength from somewhere. For piles of corpses lined up in front of empty buildings; piles of corpses sporting the Vigil uniform.

Not even flies could claim the bodies in the merciless cold. Scattered Vigil soldiers worked on carrying and leaving the bodies on the piles; eyes low, mechanical moves, like Risen repeating the same path in and out the barracks, carrying friends and companions alike.

“Crusader,” a voice called, and Morrissey looked away from the piles of dead to glance at Rytlock Brimstone in the flesh. “You brought soldiers. Good.”

“Tribune!” the charr saluted, suddenly stiff and awkward. “We came as fast as we could. The storm prevented us from sending reinforcements, and… _what in the Khan-Urr’s claw happened here?_ ”

Rytlock grunted, looking back at the path he had strolled across.

“A massacre.”

“Sons of Svanir infiltrated the fortress, we believe,” another charr intervened from behind Rytlock, and Morrissey recognized Crecia Stoneglow from the files he had read. “Any and all help is appreciated. We need to double up the patrols while the Commander looks for the Vigil’s higher command.”

“Not to mention, we need help…” Rytlock hesitated, wrinkling his snout and waving his paw towards the piles of corpses. “To dispose of all of this.”

“The soldiers who arrived from Grothmar Valley are tired and demoralized,” Crecia suddenly confided. “That’s why we need fresh hands to aid. Not to mention fresh eyes, to keep on the lookout for saboteurs and… spies.”

Her eyes pierced Morrissey’s all of the sudden, and the Agent understood it was high time to take the cue and leave. And so he took a step back, slithering behind the group of soldiers and vanishing behind a veil of stealth.

He snuck towards the building with less activity he could see; a warehouse full of crates and equipment, perfect to establish a quiet base of operations. As he accommodated the crates and left an empty space where he could sneak to if needed, he tried not to think in the piles of corpses nearby. Their empty expressions, the frozen blood on the open gashes of their frozen over wounds. The way they were perfectly preserved in the merciless cold. Probably the agents he had come to find were there as well. Empty eyes, glancing up towards the empty sky.

He shuddered. He had come too far to chicken out now.

Heavy steps alerted him of someone coming, and he hid as a bulky silhouette turned around the corner. He was a norn; tall, blonde and handsome, even with his bloodshot eyes. He muttered quietly to himself, balancing on tiptoes and rubbing his hands together.

“Oh boy,” he said out loud, to no one in particular. “What does a guy have to do to get some apples out here?”

Morrissey perked up.

“Why don’t you ask the apple vendor?” he replied. The norn lowered his shoulders, sighing in relief.

“Bear’s ears. I thought I was the only one left,” he said, as Morrissey snuck out of his hiding spot.

“I arrived with the relief team, Agent,” the sylvari clarified, narrowing his eyes. “You survived… that?”

The norn nodded, and shuddered.

“It’s easy to hide when you used to be a thief,” he mumbled. “They took us by surprise, but I managed to vanish and hide inside one of the rooms when it all happened. Saw the Commander, even. She’s pretty tall, huh? Bet she can bench press a Dolyak with no sweat. A gorgeous woman. But then I-...”

He went quiet, looking away, eyes glazed and lost in the distance, as if he listened in enraptured attention. Morrissey frowned, trying to listen as well, but unable to catch whatever sounds he was hearing.

“The-then she left, and I had to wait until the first relief team deployed before leaving my post,” he finished, a trembling smile on his lips. “It was hard stuff. Marjory Delacqua is on the case, by the way. Avoid her like the plague or she’ll make questions. Same with Crecia Stoneglow.”

Morrissey, however, kept his guard up.

“Thank you for the debriefing, Agent…”

“Oh! Sure,” he mumbled nervously, offering him a hand to shake. “Keeper Ebur Dieterson. Call me Ebbe.”

After a brief hesitation, Morrissey shook his hand.

“Agent Morrissey,” he murmured. “As I said, thank you, Keeper, but why haven’t you reported to Preceptor Velázquez?”

The norn lowered his shoulders, and Morrissey felt a tingle of pride for being able to intimidate a superior. He had to bite his lip to repress a smug smile.

“I-I lost the track of time, I had to keep up the charade, and I kept hearing the-...”

Once again, he trailed off into the distance. Morrissey raised a brow, before Ebbe looked back at him.

“I had to keep up my cover. It’s proprietary when things go south,” he mumbled.

“Alright, fine, whatever,” Morrissey shrugged, rubbing his temple. “Just stand back and report as soon as possible. I need to investigate the matter further.”

“Very well,” Ebbe murmured, as Morrissey waved his hands in the air as if he was drying them.

And suddenly the spells broke and the illusion shattered; the Vigil armor replaced by a Whispers’ tunic, and the petals of a blooming flower replacing the light, golden brown hair. The norn’s mouth hung agape as Morrissey shook dust and snow from his tunic, accommodating the feathered shoulder pads and the veil over his face. Upon noticing the norn’s scrutiny, he smirked.

“Step aside, love,” he ordered with a wave of his hand. “I have work to do.”

“W-wait!” Ebbe suddenly called, trying to grab his arm but freezing in place when Morrissey glared at him. “I have to confess something.”

The sylvari crossed his arms, cautious.

“Go on.”

“I… I wasn’t the only one who made it,” the norn mumbled, clenching and relaxing his fists. “I’m the only one left, but the others-...”

Silently, almost solemn in his gesture, he pointed towards the doors of the fortress behind the wooden wall.

“They listened- I… uh… they started walking away. Acting strange. Muttering to themselves,” Ebbe held onto his temple, appearing dizzy. “Their eyes. Their eyes were strange. Like lit up from inside, you know? Like ice caverns during summer.”

He kept on murmuring, as Morrissey narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. Towards the wooden wall, towards the hidden main entrance behind. Setting off to the icy tundra wasn’t precisely in his plans. So he turned once again, still suspicious.

“What proof do you have?” he requested. Ebbe hesitated, before retrieving something from his pockets and leaving it in Morrissey's hands.

Upon inspecting it, he realized it was a brooch. A brooch made with an elaborate design; golden thread knit into the shape of an infinite symbol.

“An agent from my unit dropped this when I tried to stop him,” the Keeper said, lowering his shoulders. “I couldn’t. He kept muttering something about the voices-...”

It seemed like Morrissey had no other choice. With a deep sigh, he turned towards Ebbe, throwing the brooch at him.

“As I said, report before I come back,” he ordered. Ebbe stood stunned for a brief second, before nodding energetically. “I’ll investigate the matter further. See if there’s anyone left.”

Upon Morrissey’s imperative gesture, Ebbe jumped aside, and the sylvari made his way towards the door. But as he hid himself under a veil of stealth, he quietly thought to himself he’d rather not trust that norn in particular.

* * *

The air was still; thick with anticipation. Morrissey scouted his immediate surroundings, skeptical. He was a master of illusion and manipulation. He knew the right tricks to lure a prey into a false sense of security, before closing his jaws and entangle them forever. Whatever was hunting him, it would have to do better than that.

Still, walking on snow was harder and more uncomfortable that he could've anticipated. He glanced back at the path he had walked from the fortress; a long, tortuous trail on the snow pointed at where he had struggled, and tripped, and dragged himself through the cold. With a grimace, Morrissey kept walking. The trail grew cold with each second wasted in self-pity. And he really wanted to leave that cold, awful place forever as soon as possible.

He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face already. He could hear Doern's words of concern and gratefulness. He could hear him, in the echoes of the wind, just as he had heard them when he first arrived at the Chantry of Secrets.

 _"I will not hurt you,"_ he had said. Even if Morrissey was ready to bury his daggers in him. _"I swear on my life."_

 _"And with your life, you will pay!"_ He was straddling him, pinning him down to the ground, a knife to his throat.

Morrissey closed his eyes. He could almost feel the warmth beneath him. Doern's breathing, steady and calm despite the circumstances.

 _"If you kill me, it is done"_ he had warned. _"You'll die here, alone and forgotten."_

 _"Then I'll take you with me!"_ he has growled. The possibility of death made his blood pump. The sound of the guards closing in was almost arousing. He longed for death. He relished in the thought. _"Kill me, if you have the guts!"_

 _"Stand down,"_ Doern ordered. Not to him, but to his agents. That was enough to make Morrissey hesitate. _"I swore I wouldn't bring harm to him. I'll stand by that oath."_

Nobody had ever protected him like that. Doern gazed into his eyes, tempering his rage, making him feel naked and alone. Frail. But not helpless.

 _"You won't die today, Morrissey,"_ Doern said, grabbing his wrist, pushing the dagger away from his throat.

_"You merely require some rest."_

Some rest sounded lovely. If he focused enough, he could still feel Doern's smell on his clothes. Like a lullaby for his senses.

_"Lay down your weapons, Morrissey. I'll take good care of you."_

The wind spoke with words of love. Morrissey hated to admit it, but those were the words he yearned to hear. After all those years. After all those tears.

_"Rest. Join your love. Regain strength for what's to come. Close your eyes, my lovely Knight."_

The Courtier opened his eyes, suddenly as tense as a bow string. And only then he realized the murmur was not the wind, but the thunderous roaring of the mountains. A storm descended over him with brutal speed, swallowing everything else, leaving him lost in an endless, pure white void.

He roared in turn, defying the storm. Strange shadows ran like ghosts past him, and he held his axe and torch up, ready to strike. His fire seemed like the only light in a condemned world, as he struggled to find his way back, to see, to breathe. With each step he felt more and more buried in snow. With each step he felt more and more that strange scurrying under it, like snakes under the sand.

Something emerged from the white, powdery mantle that covered the tundra, and Morrissey felt a stinging pain on his right wrist. He grunted, pulling and struggling fruitlessly at whatever was dragging him down to the snow, trying to brandish his torch to get a better look.

But then another being emerged from the snow, catching his left wrist, and pulling down. He cried out in pain, feeling something penetrating his gloves, burying deep within his wrists as the creature pulled. What even was that enemy? He didn’t know what to expect; he had never faced Icebrood before, less so with the aid of additional magical power. But there was something fuzzy, yet terrifyingly familiar in the pain on his wrists. Morrissey remembered it vaguely, as if it belonged in a distant past. In another life.

The things pressed tighter, and Morrissey felt his grip fail as his axe and torch fell to the snow, and darkness swallowed it all. Only cold and pain resided in Jormag's domain. Cold, pain, and memories.

As he was pulled down to his knees, two new things emerged from the ground, and Morrissey recognized, in a haze or panic, thorn whips catching his neck and pulling him down. The thorns buried on his skin, drawing blood as he cried out once more, choking and wheezing and suffocating. He could barely breathe now, desperately pulling from his bindings in vain.

He was going to die, Morrissey realized. He was going to die, lost and alone in the tundra.

Heavy steps made him tense once more, as Morrissey realized that, as long as he remained still, the whips didn’t pull him down even further. As he struggled to breathe he could make out the shape of a pair of heavy boots; thorny, heavy boots, made of some sort of vegetable matter, red as blood. Cold nested on his soul as he slowly looked up, earning a soft pull out of the thorn whips as he did.

The eyes he met were as cold as he remembered. As bright as a summer sky. As terrifying as the maw of a Dragon.

"Laurent," Morrissey gasped. "My Duke."

Laurent looked down, and a cruel smirk appeared on his face.

"After so many seasons, you finally came back to where you belong," he said, kneeling down in front of Morrissey. He grabbed his chin, forcing his head up, straining the whip's grip. "You finally came back to me."

Words escaped the Courtier, face frozen in a terrified grimace, as Laurent pulled him by the chin, making him rise. Morrissey realized that the thorn whips slowly slided from him, dropping towards the snow, vanishing under the powdery white floor. But still he was paralized, holding onto his wrist, bleeding and bruised now. Old wounds screaming, open once again.

“Are you scared?” Laurent murmured, raising a hand to caress Morrissey’s cheek, smiling when he whinced. “Are you wondering how is this possible? How can your beloved master still be here, with you?”

The veil over his mouth trembled, and Morrissey felt the sweet touch under the silk. He was real. But he was dead. He had seen him die. He had seen his body, broken and cracked, as he was absorbed by the Nightmare Tree. He had seen his eyes; wild and gone, as he cackled maniacally and clawed towards him. Trying to get to him. To drag him with him.

“Do not waste your time wondering, my Dearheart,” Laurent muttered, narrowing his eyes. “For I am here, and that’s all you need to know. I was never gone. I was always with you. Always.”

 _Always_. Even when he thought himself alone, Laurent was always there, watching. When Mordremoth almost claimed him. When he wandered the wilderness. When he found Arlen again, and when he lost him forever. When the Order caught him. When Doern showed him compassion; something he had never known.

Morrissey gasped, and tried to run. But Laurent smacked him with the back of his hand, sending his veil and turban flying in the wind. When he dropped to the ground, cheek still sore and pulsing, the Courtier could feel blood dripping from his lip, as his face slowly swolled up. He shook his head, dizzy either because of the strike or because of Laurent’s overwhelming presence, and tried to scramble to his feet.

But a kick on his side sent him rolling on the snow, crying out in pain and curling in on himself. Laurent calmly walked up to his side, turning him on his back with his boot, and tilting his head to the side.

“Your betrayals with other Courtiers, I can understand,” Laurent muttered, boot over Morrissey’s chest. “With Soundless, I can tolerate it. But _humans_? How low have you fallen, my slippery Knight?”

“You were dead,” Morrissey grunted, grabbing Laurent’s boot, trying to move it. “I was alone. I did what I had to survive.”

“Ah, but that is not true,” Laurent retorted, looming over Morrissey, crushing his chest with his boot. “It’s merely what you want to be true. You’re mine, my Dearheart. You’ve never stopped being mine, only mine.”

The darkness in his heart had never left. The desire to possess. To be more. To have more. To finally get what he deserved. Unwanted memories filled his head; when he had seen Arlen again, in Amnoon. How his heart yearned for his light, despite everything. And how his love turned to hate when he saw him accompanied. How he burned in selfish desire whenever he caught a glimpse of him. Despite everything that had happened. Despite everything he had done.

Laurent had branded him. In the scars on his body, and in the darkness on his soul.

“My Duke,” Morrissey wheezed, clawing at his boot. Laurent leaned even closer.

“Yes, my love?”

The Courtier took a deep breath, and threw a bloody spit towards Laurent’s face.

“Fuck you,” he muttered; his image shattering, vanishing in a swarm of butterflies. Laurent smirked, as he stood tall once more.

“Ah, my sweet Morrissey,” he sighed, quickly turning and grabbing Morrissey’s arm, stopping a deadly strike of his axe. “So predictable.”

Then, he brandished a sword of thorns and vines, plunging it deep inside his Knight’s abdomen. Morrissey gasped, eyes wide as a cough overcame him, and blood poured out of his parted lips.

Laurent threw him away, disposing of him as if he was a piece of garbage. Holding on to the bleeding wound on his belly, Morrissey tried to get up, only to get grabbed by Laurent once more. He forced him to turn around, and then held him by the throat with overwhelming strength.

“Just like old times, my Dearheart,” Laurent commented, raising him up from the ground. “Don’t you remember my hands on your throat? The ringing on your ears? The fear? The pain? The love?”

Morrissey couldn’t answer, desperately clawing at Laurent’s hands, feeling the cold penetrating his tattered clothes, his broken body. Tears filled his eyes, as a terrifying realization dawned on him. He thought of Doern, waiting in his office, waiting for a report with hidden words of yearning, only for him to read. And he would die cold and alone, as he always should have. Far from light, far from warmth, far from love.

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t even sob as he tried desperately to breathe, in vain. And Laurent’s voice came to him from far away.

“Pain is the only reward to earn when you play the hero,” he commented. “For you are no hero; never were one. You’ll always be my little whore.”

In the darkness of his mind, a flame lit up. He hadn’t heard that word in a while. He remembered Sariel’s sneers, and Brangoire’s lustful brutality. And he remembered Erys, and Laurent. Always demeaning, always debasing. Always terrorizing and hurting and torturing. Back then, he was weak; he lowered his head and let it happen, hoping it would never happen again.

He clenched his teeth. Maybe he didn’t deserve another chance at life, but he refused to die like that. Lost and alone. Terrified. Being called “his” by Laurent, or his ghost. He stopped kicking the air desperately, and decided that if he was to die on that day, he would go down _fighting_. And so he dangled in the air, pushing his body back in the air as high as he could, before kicking Laurent’s chest with all his strength.

He didn’t let go, but his hesitation was enough for Morrissey to vanish in the air, only to reappear a couple steps back. His knees bent and he coughed and wheezed, but he managed to remain on his feet, holding on to the wound on his belly with one arm.

Without a second to waste he launched himself forward, tacking Laurent to the ground, and straddling him with a grimace of pure hate. He had been loved by many, and many more would probably love him in the future. But he was no object to be possessed. No slave to be tossed around.

The first punch on Lauren’t face was liberating. He yelled as he hit him again, burying the spikes on his gloves deep into his flesh, mashing that handsome face into a bloody pulp.

“FUCK… YOU!” he roared into the wind, each word accentuated with a punch. “I… AM… NOT… YOUR… LITTLE… WHORE… ANYMORE!”

Still feeling the strain on his neck, Morrissey pressed down on Laurent’s throat, feeling his gloved hands clawing and biting into his fingers as he strangled him. He felt each movement as he tried to breathe and swallow, and grinned. He wanted to feel life leaving him. He wanted to taste each second of desperation and fear. He wanted to relieve every single time Laurent had terrorized him, and rejoiced.

But Laurent was stronger, and with a smack of his arm was able to shake Morrissey off to the side. And yet, as he tried to get up, the Courtier rolled in the snow onto his feet, grabbing Laurent’s firelike hair and pulling it back as his knees buckled.

His head rested on Morrissey’s shoulder as a tired lover’s would. Until the flash of a golden dagger cut his neck open, as Morrissey roared, and the wind unleashed its fury, and red, hot blood splattered the pure white snow.

The sylvari pushed the dead thing off him, standing up in the storm.

“IS THIS ALL YOU HAVE?!” he defied the wind, taunted the blizzard. “IS THIS ALL YOU CAN THROW AT ME?! IS THIS YOUR MIGHTY POWER, DRAG-...”

A cough made him bend in two, dropping in all fours once more. He spit amber blood to the ground, trembling and gasping and realizing he was, still, alive. Barely.

Suddenly, the air stood still. Only his own ravaged, laboured breathing echoed in the emptiness of the tundra, and as he looked up, he could see the snow standing still, as if nature as a whole held her breath. But even that detail became superfluous when Morrissey realized there was no Laurent in front of him, but a pair of heavy boots, designed in the style of Vigil’s equipment.

He looked up. Ebbe stood unnaturally still, throat slit open, head hanging to the side, pale as death. But his eyes were bright and blue, illuminated by a cold fire from beneath.

“You… are alive,” Ebbe said, in an impossible voice. Gurgly, throaty, wet. The voice of a dead, rotting corpse. “What a… disgrace.”

Slowly Morrissey stood up, dizzy and weak. Was he dreaming? Was he hallucinating still? Was he dying?

“Your life… is a disgrace to… the world,” Ebbe continued, his head suddenly jerking up and down. “Your… life is… a sin. Everywhere you… go you only… cause… grief.”

The corpse raised one hand, pointing at the sylvari.

“You… know this,” he recognized. “Everyone who… loved you… perished… and suffered… the consequences.”

His arm trembled, frozen and stiff, reanimated by an uncaring power. And his gesture changed; offering him a hand to take.

“You long to… erase… it all. You long to… go back. Before you… even knew… what evil… is.”

Morrissey felt an icy grip on his very soul, squeezing and pulling. And he thought of Doern; fear squeezing tighter.

“Jormag can… make it all… go away,” Ebbe exposed, arm still outstretched. “Jormag… understands… and heals. I was… a coward… and Jormag made me… strong. Jormag… sees into your… heart and… mends every… wound.”

His new allies despised him. Morrissey remembered Valenze, and other sylvari agents, shuddering and murmuring as he walked by. He remembered Arlen’s terror upon finding him in Elona. The weight on his shoulders was too much to bear. And Morrissey had never considered the possibility of, simply, removing it. Never again having to live with the nightmares. Never again having to live with the side glances and the fear. Just letting it all go. Ebbe’s frozen lips forced a smile.

“Jormag speaks… and listens.” he said. “Seek for him… in the darkest corners of… your mind.”

And as the norn fell down like a puppet with its strings cut, the storm resumed its rage and pushed Morrissey to the ground once again. To crawl his way back under the cruel lashes of ice and snow.


End file.
